A Dream of Samarkánd.

Between the mountains of Alai And Tian-Shan’s heavenly chain Lies the home of the Zagatai, Fergána’s fruitful plain. First of the towns whose domes and wall Deck that illustrious land Stands the lame Timùr’s capital, His best-loved Samarkánd. I stood inside a shattered room, Stricken by earthquakes rife, That Timùr raised above the tomb Of Ming’s fair daughter-wife. Daughter of China’s Bógdu-Khan, Wife of the great Timùr, Who ’twixt them ruled the vast inland From Red Sea to Amùr. Above an arch a double dome Bites in the clear blue sky (Bramanté’s famous fane at Rome Seems scarce so broad and high). Above the dome a crescent bright Watched sleepy Samarkánd, Asleep to-day, but wide awake When Timùr ruled the land. Sure, such a tomb was never raised By widower to wife! Nor Akhbar brave nor Shah Jehán Did thus weld bricks to life. The Tâj, in marble shining bright By Agra’s sun-baked walls, Must yield the palm for sheer delight To Bibi-Khánim’s halls. The sun shines through the double dome, Lighting its inner skin, It shows the remnant of the stair That upwards led within, From which the muezzin, climbing slow, To shout the evening prayer, Could see the Rigistán below, Shir-Dár and Tilla-Kare. I seemed to see the cliffs at Kesh, Whence came the great Amìr, From whose red rift the Zarafshán Sends forth its waters clear. I seemed to see the Tatar horde, Under Toktámish brave, Beaten and drowning in the ford That crosses Kubán’s wave. I saw the Mogul army move To conquer Hindostán; Its serried, strong divisions prove The master mind of man. Ninety-two thousand fretting steeds Rush down from hill to plain; Timùr descends the khud by ropes, Five times let down again. The Mongols march upon Attock And cross the rivers five, Timùr joins forces at Multán With all his sons alive; His armies then invest Batnir, They come to Delhi’s towers, Mahmud Sultán gives battle there, Timùr his standard lowers. Asia, from Irtish to Ormùz O’er-run by Timùr’s bands, Irán, Turán and Ind had felt The weight of Mongol hands. Aleppo taken by the horde, Timùr fresh laurels culls, And covers Baghdad’s reeking sward With pyramids of skulls. Now on Angóra’s fateful plain The “Lightning” Bayazet Urges his Turks to fight, in vain, ’Gainst Mongol and kismet. ’Twas told that Bayazet was caged Just like a timid deer, But Timùr never warfare waged On captives of his spear. From all these scenes of lust and blood I turn to Samarkánd, Where Zarafshán’s refreshing flood Gives life unto the land. Here Timùr mosque and palace built Around a sheltered pool, Set in a field with arbours gilt, And called it Khân-i-Gùl. Thousands of guests were bid to share The great Amìr’s largesse, The Guilds and Trades were gathered there, The wronged received redress. Here, in his coat of mail of steel, Timùr, ’midst his sepoys, From Russ, and France, and far Castille, Received the Grand Envoys. Six grandsons of the Great Amìr Wed brides of princely rank, Nine times the brides their dresses change, Nine times their handmaids thank. Each time each bride is fresh arrayed, Fall to the ground in showers Rubies and diamonds, which the maid Keeps as her bridal flowers! I see Timùr, one boot, one glove, And with his lint-white hair, Delighted on his chess-board move Fifty-six pieces fair. The blood-red ruby in his ear Trembles before my view, But when his rage the stone shakes there, ’Fore God! the world shakes too. At last the Mogul Emperor Invades far-off Cathay, He starts, the tired conqueror, Marching ten miles a day, Crosses Syr-Dária’s solid stream, And stops at Otrár, when He sees the blade of Àzrael gleam At three-score years and ten. Come with me to the Gùr-Amir, Within whose simple walls Over a six-foot block of jade A horsehair standard falls. Beneath the dark and polished stone Descends a bare brick stair, Leading to Tamerlane’s own tomb, Nor pomp nor state is there. Beneath the fluted, darkened dome, Where dimly seen in gloom, Surrounded by an Arab text, Hangs Timùr’s tattered plume, Outside the simple marble rail Engraved with Timùr’s name, The passing pilgrim cannot fail To muse on Timùr’s fame.